


Guardian

by jsymo



Category: Original Work
Genre: Catholic, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exorcisms, Explicit Language, I Don't Even Know, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supernatural Elements, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 01:27:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14148936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsymo/pseuds/jsymo
Summary: Basic gist: main character is adopted by a Preist and his wife. They're abusive parents and don't understand why he constantly hears voices that encourage him to impulsive decisions. He eventually learns that he's a Cambion, and has to discover what that means for who he truly is.*Will include more tags as story progresses





	Guardian

_Question III  
Whether children can be generated by Incubi and Succubi._

_AT first it may truly seem that it is not in accordance with the Catholic Faith to maintain that children can be begotten by devils, that is to say, by Incubi and Succubi: for God Himself, before sin came into the world, instituted human procreation, since He created woman from the rib of man to be a helpmeet unto man: And to them He said: Increase, and multiply, (Genesis ii, 24). Likewise, after sin had come into the world, it was said to Noe: Increase and multiply, (Genesis ix, 1). In the time of the law also, Christ confirmed this union: Have ye not read, that he who made man from the beginning, Made them male and female? (S. Mathhew xix, 4). Therefore, men cannot be begotten in any other way than this.  
-Hienrich Kramer, Malleus Maleficarum_

__  
Have you ever seen one of those maps on the internet? The one of America, without all of the states filled in, and the borders have been drawn and labeled by a foreigner with no fucking clue as to where things belong. The joke is that they're filling the blanks using stereotypes. So like, California has “hippies and trees” written on it, slapped over the New England states you'll have “taxi drivers and Jersey Shore,” and the Midwest is pretty much just “corn”.

That's it.

Just fucking corn. 

Oh, sure, there will be a half-assed attempt to throw Chicago in there around Lake Michigan, but the rest of us just drown in seas of corn apparently. 

There are two things that eat me about this. The first is the notion that you take two steps off of Michigan Avenue and you're ass deep in a cornfield. I'll spend half the fucking night trying to escape Chicagoland trying to see corn. So, no. It isn't that fucking easy. The second thing is that apparently there is something comical about corn. Hasn't anyone seen a movie, or read a book? Cornfields, or the regional equivalent of them, are synonymous with danger. They're no good, bad omens. They're the perfect places to commit sins, to bury your shame. 

Cornfields aren't the premise to a bad joke, they're usually the first witness to a crime.

I could probably make a bad pun about how cornfields are all ears, able to listen to your secrets, and never tell a soul. But you wouldn’t catch me laughing at it. I wouldn’t want to hear what they’d confess about me if they could. So I’ll keep my mouth shut.

What does all of this have to do with anything? I can tell you’re wondering. The truth is, it doesn’t. The point is that I’m bare assed, pressed up against the brick backside of a truck stop, hours from Michigan Avenue. And I’m trying to keep my mind steady, while trying to shut out the sharp sounds of a metal belt buckle slapping against the wall near my thigh.

The point is, I’m in no position to do heavy thinking, but I’ve gotta do something to keep everything else from getting to me. 

So yeah, bending over for a trucker has sent me into a tangent about corn.

I’m not so surprised anymore. You’d be surprised at what your mind is capable of once you start selling yourself on the streets. 

Currently it’s just trying to keep itself preoccupied until this is all over, because I know that this should be my last of the night. I’ll have enough in cash to make it through tomorrow, as long as I can get back into the city in time. 

I still have to wait a few minutes after the flurry of corn thoughts leave me before he’s done. To keep myself calm I press my fists into the bricks. Pressing the edges against my skin helps keep me together, it’s pressure that keeps me together. If I get too loose I can lose myself sometimes, and I’ll start drifting away. 

Signalling he’s finished, the trucker pushes himself off of my back, he tucks himself in and pulls his pants up, buttoning them as he walks away. I have to take a moment to let the adrenaline burn its way through me, giving me strength to peel myself away from the wall. The bills are clutched, tight in my fist, I shove them inside my coat as I struggle to pull my own pants back up and start walking away. 

I’m glad this one wasn’t a talker. He’d pegged me for exactly what I was around the front of the truck stop building, he threw out a number, and I accepted it with a nod. A hundred bucks for ten minutes, and I didn’t even have to say a word.

Not that I’m big on words myself. The world doesn’t want to listen, so I stopped talking.  
There’s only a small selection of cars in the parking lot. I could try approaching one of the drivers for a lift, but it’s a cool night out. My hands are have been shaking for hours already, and though I know a car will be the quickest way into the city, my paranoia won’t allow me to relax and think about hitching a ride. 

Walking seems safer for the time being.

Putting one foot in front of the other is all I have the energy to focus my mind on. It helps to keep me from thinking about the now constant itch under my skin. It feels like I’ve been cut down to my cells, and I know Jonah will be my only fix. The last of my pill ran out a few days ago, so I need to refill my supply. My shaking hands keep pulling and scratching at my nose, it’s dripping. 

The lights on the highway speed by as I meander closer to the city. I know I won’t have to walk all night to get home. Eventually I’ll come across someone willing to pick me up. 

To keep myself busy I think about the bills I had managed to pull in tonight. I’d started off pretty early, desperate to make the cash I needed to get a full dose. Without pulling them out, I finger the bills. 

“Pretty sure I’m at five.”

I keep watching my feet walk. 

There’s a sharp sting that stands out against the rest of the pain lighting me up, it’s at the back of my right foot. Blisters.

The moon is further up than it was when I started walking, so it’s a sure sign I’m getting close. At the next off ramp I jump the guardrail and stumble to my knees. It’s an appropriate position for how I spent the night. 

I only have to crawl around a dozen intersections before I get lucky. A car swings by. Buick. It’s beige, and an older model. Clearly owned by someone with an ounce more responsibility than I can say for myself. 

It rolls up nice and slow. I’m not sure what the offer will be, but I’ll do anything for a ride. 

The window slices down and shows the faces of a middle age couple. They look clean. Good hygiene, no drugs. The guy has a clean cut beard and salt and pepper hair. The woman has a scarf tied artfully around her neck. I can tell they have taste. Class. Not my standard fare, but….

“It’s awful cold out there, young man,” the guy starts in as I step up and place a hand on the car, “do you need help getting somewhere?”

I say nothing, wanna see if he adds a condition to it. I’ve learned that waiting will usually draw out whatever it is that they’re really looking for.

“Please,” the woman says, probably fearing I’m about to wander off without giving them a chance, “we’d just like to get you somewhere safe.”

The man turns in his seat and slowly makes a point of unlocking the doors. They seem safe enough. I don’t hesitate before crawling in. 

When he asks for an address I don’t supply, just mutter “Rosemont,” before buckling in.  
They try to get more from me, but that’s all they’re getting. I’d rather not be dropped off like some domestic fare.

I can hear them both sigh as they give in, and as we pull away the Mrs. introduces themselves.  
“This is Steve, and I’m Diane,” I hear her saying. 

She doesn’t ask for my name, and I don’t volunteer one, but it doesn’t seem to matter to either of them.

I wonder how many times they’ve done this. Picked up some kid off the street at night.  
My fists are clenched tight to keep from crying out every time Steve makes a hard turn, or hits a pothole. “It’s fucking Illinois,” I want to scream at the man, “how have you never learned to avoid a fucking pothole?”

Diane is still talking as my muscles lock up, I just want this ride to go by quick so I can get to Jonah. After the hands and pains usually comes nausea, and as generous as they pretend to be, Diane and Steve will take offence to stranger spewing all over their seats. 

I can’t help but yelp as we hit a nasty bump. It all too crudely reminds me of what I’d been doing to make some quick cash, and I have to slump over to alleviate some of the pain. I’m about to slip into a doze when I feel something nudging one of my fists. 

Diane - is she still talking? - is putting a Bible in my hand. Christ. They’re those kind of people. 

So they’ve done this before, then.

I catch her saying something about charity and forgiveness and I just laugh. Diane is clearly more high than codeine will ever get me. I take the Bible anyways and hold it closer to me. She seems encouraged by my response and starts talking faster. 

The car’s heater and Diane’s attempt to bring God into my life lull me into a much needed dose.

When I rouse myself awake it’s to find the car parallel parked, but running. 

I reach a hand to my face and scrub at my dripping nose.

“Are you sure there isn’t somewhere we can take you?” that’s Steve. 

I nod. 

“Sweetheart,” I look up at Diane, pausing in my attempt to get out of the car, “there are a few names and numbers in the front of that book. Those are people willing to help, all you need to do is ask.”

Fat chance.

I pull the door open without another word, and start down the street without looking back. 

After a few blocks I take out the Bible and flip it over in my hands. It’s good quality, I’ll give them that much.

It takes a bit more walking before I figure out where I am, Jonah’s is about two miles north, I think. So I change directions and keep going. 

As I walk I think about Jonah. He’s a good kid. I’ve known him for a few years, met him through his Dad, actually. His father was the guy who first started selling to me, but when he got locked up a few months back, Jonah took over. He knew the game from watching his dad, and I trusted him.

I rubbed the back of my hand against my nose. 

Jonah was a sophomore this year, that’s what he told me back in July at least. He’d be getting his driver’s license soon. And despite the fact that he couldn’t get a car, he was excited. I understood what he felt. That plastic means freedom. Or it’s supposed to, at least. 

Jonah always seem so damn optimistic about everything. I’m envious about that, I’d like to think about things more positively, but life is shit. Smiling isn’t going to make it better. 

I feel like crying out when Jonah’s apartment comes into view. It’s been another long night, but I’ve made it. 

The doors in this complex need a good scrub. They’re worn from use, and specks of mold fleck the bottoms from years of wet feet stomping by, without the benefit of a caring hand. After knocking I hold my breath. It’s coming up on 2 am, but I saw the flashing lights through the window. Someone is in there watching TV. 

“Shit!”

I can hear scraping along the walls, which means Jonah’s grandmother is coming to the door. That only ever happens when Jonah isn’t home. I’m pissed enough to turn and leave without waiting, but I fucking stay. Gram doesn’t get around well, so if she’s putting in the effort to answer the door, then I’m going to be there to fucking give her a reason to.

She cracks the door and has to shuffle back to allow it to swing open. The narrow hall that their apartment opens into isn’t wide enough for her walker, so she has to get out of her own way to open the door. 

Her eyes are milky, cataracts I think. And I immediately look to her skinned knuckles. She’s got paper white skin, and the creases of her knuckles are a deep red. Moving down the hall with her walker always scrapes off the fragile skin where the plaster rubs them. That’s why Jonah answers the door.

“No Jonah?” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice. It isn’t her fault that I’m fucked. I already know the answer.

She shakes her head, “not tonight.”

I nod and bite my lip, I can taste where it’s split in a few places, “can I get some grass from you, Gram?”

She licks her lips and reaches into the bag she has hanging on her walker. The bag that’s supposed to only hold tissues, balled up and used, cough drops, and patches of quilting fabric also holds Gram’s grass. I thought it was funny the first time she fished a pack out from there before handing it over, not so much anymore. 

“Gimme a quarter,” I say, handing over a few bills.

She stuffs the bills into a different bag, and pulls a baggie from between a few strands of yarn.  
I take it and immediately bend over to stuff it in my sock, it’s not the most original spot, but it’s safe enough.

It’s not the score I was hoping for tonight, but it’ll at least take the edge off.

“Get something on those,” I say pointing to her knuckles.

She nods and I leave.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work I've been mulling over for years, and finally started jotting down. I figured I would post it because the people on this website are very forthcoming with ideas to help, and you're wonderfully supportive


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